"pity this busy monster, manunkind" by e. e. cummings

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
–electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
                          A world of made
is not a world of born—pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if—listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go


                                  

"r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r" by e. e. cummings


                             r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
                     who
a)s w(e loo)k
upnowgath
                 PPEGORHRASS
                                             eringint(o-
aThe):l
           eA
                !p:
S                                                             a
                              (r
rIvInG                           .gRrEaPsPhOs)
                                                              to
rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
,grasshopper;





(This poem is so sweet it blows my mind. I can barely handle it myself, which is why I was reluctant to put out there for yall; most you simply cannot handle the level of mind blowage.)